


The Act of Being

by IraGeneve



Category: Halloween (2018), Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IraGeneve/pseuds/IraGeneve
Summary: One party, a group of friends, one killer. That's how all of them start. But there's something more to him, and something more to her.





	The Act of Being

**Author's Note:**

> Hi <3 it took me forever to build up the courage to write and post something original, but here I am with the 1st chapter for Michael Myers’s story. There are plenty more things to see in the following chapters and I have plans for other slashers as well. Please let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more, constructive criticism is always welcomed!

31 October 2021

  For a moment she didn’t understand what was going on. Her shoulder felt numb and she felt the t-shirt sticking on her skin, wet. Everything happened too fast, she bolted forward and only when she reached the other room she felt the pain, the blood, and everything clicked. Her friends weren’t hiding and her imagination wasn’t playing tricks when in the corner of her eye she saw a glimmer in the moonlight. The knife that was meant to strike straight to her heart hit her arm instead, and that only because she wanted a bit of that pistachio.

  She kept running, quickly looking around for a place to hide or something to defend herself with, not realizing she was holding her breath all this time. She felt herself shaking, anxious and nervous as if she saw a ghost. And that was the weirdest part, because she did see a ghost. One that had a pale white face with cold void eyes, wielding a kitchen knife covered in her friends’ blood. She slipped into a little hall, trying to be as quiet as the wooden floor would let her. The door closed soundless behind her, and she let out a deep sigh. Straightening her back, she knew exactly where she had to go. 

  Three years ago the Shape of Haddonfield escaped, determined to finish what he started 40 years ago. That determination was something anyone would envy, if they had the nerve to joke about Michael Myers. What once was only a tale of the Boogeyman, for some it was too real to even think about. There was a problem though, he didn’t manage to do it, and he ended up in a huge fire locked in the basement by the very one Laurie Strode he was trying to kill.

  She slowly reached the kitchen and the fact that the house was completely silent behind her made her stomach heavy. _Where is he?_ The kitchen door opened with a slight crack, making her bite her lower lip, a reaction that came in handy when it stopped her from screaming as the room revealed itself to her. Melanie was there on the table, with her neck wide open and her beautiful green eyes lifeless, staring into nothingness. She slowly got closer, chewing on her own lip to stop herself from tearing up, and she closed her friend’s eyes, hypnotized by how perfect and deep the flesh was cut. The blood was still slightly pulsing. Poor thing, she thought as she moved past her, Melanie always liked the color red. The blood was dripping from the blonde’s neck onto the table and then on the floor, a gruesome cascade thriving underneath the corpse.

  After that Halloween night, Michael’s body was never found, and Laurie with her daughter and granddaughter disappeared. Teachers, classmates, workmates, no one knew where they were. And maybe that was for the best, maybe it was the sign that it will finally end.

  Passing the kitchen without looking back was the heaviest task she had to do, but there was someone else in the house and there was no time for mourning. Not yet. She will mourn later if she managed to get out alive, she promised.

  She cursed under breath; Evan’s house was too big. She only made it to the main stairs after what felt like forever and a day, thoughts bouncing in her head the entire way. A feeling was choking her. She pressed her back against the wall, walking upstairs as close to it as possible to avoid any sound from the wooden stairs. The feeling of guilt was so heavy in her throat she couldn’t even swallow well. Probably all her friends were dead, was she supposed to escape? Was it fine for her to live while they died in the room next to her, while she did nothing? Every muscle in her body was tensed, and she often found herself holding her breath with every step. There was a paranoid fear that he would jump from anywhere, as if any dark corner had a Michael Myers clown box waiting for her. Fear, guilt, anxiety, adrenaline, pain, too many emotions were going to make her puke.

  The following two Halloweens happened like usual: some people died here and there from some bad jokes or too much alcohol in the organized parties, but nothing out of common. And that was the problem; none of them happened in Haddonfield and none of them had Michael’s style. That was driving people insane, where was he and what was he doing? Was he really dead this time? Was he planning his revenge or did he change his branding? The thought of uncertainty was much worse than knowing what was going on, therefore people decided to declare him dead for good. And to be fair, they had no evidence to prove he wasn’t, so people accepted it.

  She knew in her heavy beating heart that Michael Myers was pretty much alive, there was no mistake about it. She felt a sudden anger towards those who lied and acted based on their own fears, maybe Mel would still be alive if they prepared the masses better. But nothing changed the fact that he was there in the house and that he was hunting his last victim for tonight.

  She finally reached the end of the stairs. Looking down, the house looked abandoned, haunted even. Ghostly grains of dust were dancing in the moonlight, and that was the only source of light around her. She came here with a purpose, but it was almost impossible to find the attic door without light. That was the only place she could think of that was safe. With no other choice anyway, she tried her best to tip toe with just one foot, feeling around the ceiling.

 _The door, where is the goddamn attic door._ Seconds were passing by and her movements were getting hectic, she started to panic. He was there, she was sure. Did he find her? Was he just finding the good angle to gut her for making him wait this long? Was the attic door even there?

  Her breathing rate increased when she felt the handle. Butterflies hit her entire chest from the wave of relieve, she was going to survive. But as soon as she let out a nervous smile, she realized she’s far from being safe. Trying to open the attic door as silent as possible seemed like a child’s play at that moment, because the real problem was to reach it enough to push it upwards and to climb inside. She needed something, a chair or a table or-

_Fuck._

  In the frame of the staircase was him, a towering shape in flesh and bones, the knife held so tight in his hand she could see his white knuckles even in the dark. There has been few seconds where neither of them moved, seconds when she could hear her own pulse. They both were waiting. The slightest movement from him made her bolt like a deer escaping the wolf’s fangs, limping straight to the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door closed behind her and any chair, furniture, anything she could move was now in front of it. Moments after there were loud bangs into the door, the man behind it trying to break in.

  She ran out of rooms to hide and the annexed balcony didn’t offer much support in the matter. The balcony doors were crystal clear and the house was taller than the average second floor. She quickly got in the surrounding: Evan’s bed, not tall enough _. BANG!_ His wardrobe, not big enough. _BANG!_ Desk, posters, clothes, a ball. Nothing. Nothing to help her. Where was her head when she was in the kitchen, she could take a knife or anything!

  Then she suddenly heard it: far off into the distance the police sirens were screaming in panic, and she inhaled so sudden she almost choked herself. She knew he heard them too. There has been a short pause before the hits in the door became more hurried, heavier. He needed the job done.

  Everything was now a matter of time. If she could delay him until the cops were there, she would survive the night. The thought didn’t even have time to settle in; Michael’s crazed hand broke into the wooden door to push and throw whatever was holding it. The next second she was out on the balcony, the cold stinging on her still wet wound. She grabbed one cloth from the floor before switching rooms, trying to knot it around the doorknobs from outside, anything that could hold him back a little longer. She closed her eyes shut finding a baseball bat and holding it tight, _just a little longer_.

  Michael Myers made his way into the bedroom quickly after and he didn’t look pleased. His chest was wavering in anger and even if the sirens were getting closer, all she could hear was her mind buzzing like 100 bees at once. _It’s alright, it’s fine, there’s still one more door_ \- she kept whispering to herself holding the baseball bat with all her might. He came in front of the balcony doors, looking at the cloth around the handles and then up to her. She felt proud of her little cheat, and the police seemed like just few streets away. The moment the glass door shattered under the masked man’s strength, without even trying to open it like a normal person would, her knees went soft giving up underneath her _._ No! _That’s not how you open a door!_

  His heavy boots cracked the broken glass under his steps and her hazel eyes were wide and teary, fixed on the holes of his own. She could only push herself backwards; this was the end of the line. He grabbed her foot pulling her closer, momentarily losing his balance from the force when he only pulled out her prosthetic and a scream. Michael tilted his head looking at the fake leg he was holding.

  “Give me back my leg!” his attention was brought back to her, her face red and her eyebrows furrowed. The cops were all just driving in on their street, the lights coloring Michael’s white mask in shades of red and blue. He threw the leg away, walking up to her holding his knife up. One strike and everything was going to end. When the knife was seconds away from penetrating her skull, it stopped in front of her suddenly raised hands. In her shaking palms, two candies.

  “The-These are my Halloween treats! I’m sharing!” she said with trembling voice, her gaze held down while her hands were up above her head. She was so desperate that even the candies in her jacket seemed like a good idea at the moment. When she actually felt one of the candies getting picked, she raised her head with so much hope in her eyes, only to meet despair seconds later as the knife cut deep into her palm. She cried out as the cops parked the cars and rushed inside, breaking the front door of the house. Michael pulled back the knife, and she jerked herself away, holding her wounded hand and moaning in pain. Switching the angle of the blade he was ready to give the decisive blow, while the girl was supporting herself on the steel bars of the balcony to stand up, whimpering and groaning. She grabbed the bat she dropped earlier and locked her gaze with his. She wasn’t going down yet, her lower lip trembling, but her eyes filled with nothing but determination. He lounged on her and she threw herself to the side, hitting Michael with the bat over the back of his head using all her body weight. He dropped the knife, stumbled upon his own steps and disoriented holding his head. The girl gave one last hit with the bat over the back of his knees, making him lose balance. He tried to grab on the balcony edge for support but the blood she left on the bars made them slippery. Michael Myers fell and hit the steel full on with his cheek, emotionless dropping on the floor.

  She was breathing heavily, cold tears falling down her cheeks but her face was screaming anger and pain and triumph. She was still holding the bat, ready for another attack. When the moment didn’t come, she dropped the weapon and gasped for air. She did it, she was alive. She was breathing so fast and so loud she couldn’t find her voice to scream for help. Michael wasn’t dead, his chest slowly rising and falling, but he wasn’t moving and that was good enough. Exhaustion suddenly hit her, eyelids begging to be closed. She inhaled deeply, relaxing her shoulders and exhaling loud and heavy, clouds forming in the cold in front of her. She could hear the cops downstairs, finding body after body. They will come up there too, and she would be finally safe.

  She lazily moved her gaze towards the killer, to his mask’s eye sockets. The Boogeyman was there, lying flat next to her, hot breathing slightly clouding the front of his face. A sudden thought made her reach out, her body complaining in pain. She wanted to see his face, the face of pure evil. “Please, don’t wake up” she whispered exhausted, moving on top of his chest and placing her hands on top of the mask. She suddenly got nervous, everything she heard on TV about him playing all over again in her head. Swallowing hard she slowly raised the dirty mask off his face.

  The moment the mask was gone her jaw dropped.

  He was…human. She almost felt disappointed. His left eye was heavily scarred, lost probably, and his face was spotted by burned scars badly treated, if treated at all. But there was nothing to scream pure evil, he seemed tired if anything. Her bloody fingers feathery traced his features, afraid not to wake up the beast. From his eyebrow, to his sharp cheekbone that was now bruised and black, and down to his grey beard. There was a tint of sadness in her eyes seeing the white in his beard and his scanty hair. “40 years and other 15 before that, huh…” she quietly said, absently staring to his closed eyes and furrowed eyebrows. A question suddenly popped up in her head, her breathing pacing up against his steady one. What are they going to do to you now?

  Loud voices on the stairs snapped her back to reality. _What are they going to do to him now?_ It’s not her problem, he killed people. He killed Mel. He killed his own sister and hundreds of other people. He was evil, uncontrollable, with no morale of good or bad. Right? That’s what they said, everyone said that. She glanced up through the broken glass that lead into the messy bedroom, waiting the cops to barge in every moment. Was he truly the evil incarnated? Was this man touched by old age and wounded beyond repair everything they said? He never spoke, he never showed them what they wanted. “They just always wanted something from you…” she whispered to herself looking down on his slow breathing chest, almost like a bottom line that just clicked with her. She felt some kind of sympathy staring at him. She furrowed her eyebrows trying to understand the conflicted feelings in her chest. Next to his hand was the candy he took from her, lemon flavored. His hand was missing two fingers and the wound was looking plagued and old. Too many emotions flitted through her mind, unable to make sense of it all. “Did they give you any chance?” She heard her voice cracking in another whisper. A shout in the hallway, a man’s voice through the open door “Here! There’s a broken door here!” Her pulse started to race once again. She couldn’t let them take him back to the Smith’s Grove. Not again. That has never been a good thing. "That’s not a way to live.” she said through clenched jaw looking at him, with her last powers hiding the mask along her bra line hoping it won’t fall down, and starting to scream.

  “Here, please!” She needed a lie, something, _anything_ to fool them. “Please help me and-” she paused suddenly, her eyes big. “my father” she whispered in sheer panic, instead of her own voice hearing one of a child, crying and begging to anyone who had ears to hear. The cops surrounded her and Michael, the girl only whispering while staring into nothing, burning tears falling down her cheeks.

  “Please help my father, please anyone please help my father” she repeated over and over, not hearing the cops’ words of encouragement, not hearing her own voice, not seeing or feeling anything.

  Five men raising Michael from the ground was the last thing she saw before a comforting darkness took her.

  She could rest, at last.


End file.
